


Perfect Circle

by Moon Faery (tsukinofaerii)



Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: M/M, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-22
Updated: 2010-03-22
Packaged: 2017-10-08 05:49:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/73362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsukinofaerii/pseuds/Moon%20Faery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Roxas and Axel go around and around, but even when everything else is different they're still the same as they've always been.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perfect Circle

A humming note hovered in the air over the Castle That Never Was, thick and mournful. Another followed it, and another, in a flowing sheet of sound that poured down from the private quarters above. Roxas had been watching the half-finished moon in the Addled Impasse, but the notes drew him inexplicably up the winding stairs, following the music. His boots made soft taps that bounced off the walls and up the steps, subtly off-time until he adjusted his stride for the slower pace of the music. There was nothing better to do than wander, and the grey City outside the walls was almost as depressing as the white-on-white of everything within them. His rooms were the same—walls, floor furniture, without a hint of color to break the monotony. He'd never bothered decorating them; decorating to reflect a personality he didn't actually have and an existence he wasn't sure of struck him as potentially morbid and definitely pathetic.

If he could explain why the music drew him, he would have. The only reason that seemed to fit was how _dull_ everything had been. The Organization was still reeling from the loss of three of its founding members at Castle Oblivion just a week ago. They'd been around for years, and had been comfortable in their perceived eternity. Since then, there'd been no missions, no experiments, no chaos caused by the inevitable clash of egos. Only quiet. And now, music.

At the top of the stairs was a familiar room, and _color_. Deep reds and oranges splashed over the walls in random patterns that might have been the work of an artist or a Nobody with a paint bucket and too much spare time. Souvenirs from dead worlds lined shelves of real wood: a jeweled box, a chunk of crystal, a piece of broken machinery. Axel hadn't really decorated; he wasn't the type. Things accumulated over time anyway, and if he wasn't one for decorating he _was_ a collector. And, it seemed, a musician. Something that tasted almost like curiosity made Roxas stay silent as he watched Axel drag his fingers over the strings of Demyx's sitar. The redhead didn't notice him, even when his boots scuffed over the rug from Agrabah.

He'd never known Axel could play anything. The Flurry of Dancing Flames had never really seemed like he might have anything at all in common with Nine, who was always staring off into space and fingering notes on the air. But Axel's expression was that same rapt, seeing-nothing stare that got Demyx into so much trouble. Every now and then his eyes would narrow and he'd repeat the same notes three, sometimes four times before grabbing for a sheet of paper at his elbow and scribbling down the notes.

Roxas settled himself against a wall, appreciating Axel's thin frame as it sprawled over the bed. He'd removed his jacket, leaving the long line of his back bare. Shadows played in the hollows of his muscles and where his bony spine formed ridges between his sharp shoulder blades. There was something telling in the way he chewed his lip, or whispered a line over and over until he got it right.

It was weird, seeing Axel so serene. Normally, the other Nobody was in some sort of motion, always agitated or fidgeting. His hands spoke a language all their own that Roxas had learned to understand only slowly. They punctuated his sentences with subtext that put it all into perspective. Even when he slept, Axel fidgeted. The peace felt like something that should be preserved, folded away in the book of his memories and brought out later, brittle and darkened with age but still sharp.

After what could have been an eternity or ten minutes—Roxas never could tell with the chaotic way time flowed in the World That Never Was—the music fell silent. He opened his eyes to find green ones boring into him from the bed, chin resting on his elbow. Axel had pushed the instrument and paper aside and settled on his stomach.

"What do you think?" Axel's voice was warm, soft, like Roxas could tuck it away to bring out on cold nights. It made Roxas shiver, remembering how many times Axel had kept him warm. It was the difference between a candle and a campfire. "I just started it."

The younger boy shook himself and stepped out of the thin protection of the shadows, trying not to look at the other. He needed to say that he was leaving, as much for Axel's sake as his own. He'd been procrastinating for too long already. Nearly a week. But quiet moments between them were as precious as anything could be, and he couldn't bring himself to ruin this one. "I think Demyx is going to kill you when he finds out." He managed an approximation of his usually hard tone as he dropped down onto the bed. "I thought he was the musician."

Something must have given him away. Axel's eyes lit with a familiar, needy fire. "Everyone has a hobby." Then burn-calloused hands were unzipping his jacket and sliding over skin, and Roxas let Axel make him forget again.

Tomorrow. He'd tell him tomorrow.  


***

  
A soft humming carried over the thick night air, just barely audible over the crackle of the campfire. The tune had the same haunting familiarity as a lullaby. Roxas couldn't pinpoint where he'd heard it before, but he knew it well enough that his toe tapped along with the melody. He looked up from beating dents out of his shield, blowing a loose strand of hair from his eyes. Sweat made it stick to his skin, but he ignored it. The inconvenience of marching in summer was nothing compared to the same thing in winter, and the air wasn't too humid for comfort yet. Later into summer it would be, but for now it still had the ripe greenness of things yet to grow.

Roxas eyed his partner tiredly. Axel was, in theory, sharpening his sword, but the whetstone hung limp between his fingers as he contemplated the night sky. There were scorch marks on the hardened leather of his armor—Axel never failed to gravitate towards fire in a fight—but he'd made no move to repair them. "What are you going on about now?"

There was no reply for a long time. Even the quiet rhythm of whispered words stopped as Axel stared into the distance, seeing things Roxas sometimes wondered about. It made the silence around them even heavier, as though they were set apart by more than just distance. Their camp was conspicuously close to the center of a score or more of ones much like it, better positioned than they really deserved and left completely to them when every other fire had at least ten men around it. It was one of the benefits of being with Axel.

Axel was good with fire. Even their campfire did better when he was around, whether he touched it or not, and all the fires around him were the same. They never burned out and never spread too far, the wood was never too damp or too dry. No matter the conditions, it somehow still burned well. He said he'd been fought over when they went to assign him to a legion. Lucius Mummius himself had placed him where he was.

Everyone knew Axel was gods-touched. That explained a lot to Roxas. People the gods played with were always a little crazy.

Dark hair caught the firelight and turned bloody red as Axel finally tipped his head to look at Roxas. His eyes were as green as a cat's. "I was just wishing I knew how to write."

"And that makes you sing?" Roxas asked incredulously, dropping his shield by the rest of his gear and taking a seat beside the fire. The grass was cool and dry, but he knew it would be damp with dew by morning. "Besides, what would you want to write? That's priest stuff. Leave it to them. Or join them."

Axel laughed, a deep-throated sound that brought weary heads up from the far side of their campfire. The stares didn't last long. The rest of their contubernium knew about them, and it only made some of the respect Axel got transfer to Roxas. They'd have whatever privacy they wanted. "Are you trying to get rid of me?" he asked, lips spread in a grin that wasn't nearly joking enough for Roxas. "I could take you with me and we could serve Lupa together. I'm sure she'd be pleased at our... piety."

Before Axel could move, Roxas punched him in the arm. "I'm not sharing. Not even with the gods." He slid over until their thighs pressed together, feeling possessive.

"Blasphemer," his partner accused fondly, bumping Roxas with his shoulder until their heads rested together comfortably.

"The gods will understand." From this angle, Axel was all sharp points and flat planes. Roxas supposed he should have been making the other man take care of his equipment, but he didn't really care. If Axel forgot, Roxas would do it for him, and Axel would return the favor one day. That was how they'd done things since they were recruits. "So why do you want to write?"

"I thought I might write music." Axel stared at the fire, as though ashamed, and it snapped at a piece of kindling as if in response.

"Hymns?"

Thin, fire-warm fingers threaded through his, making Roxas' heart skip. "I thought maybe love songs."

Roxas stared into the fire, trying to find the same meaning in it that Axel did. But it was only light and warmth to him. It kept the dark away, but he'd never been afraid of the darkness. "Maybe when we're citizens, we can find someone to teach you. An instrument, too."

Axel brought his knuckles up and brushed a kiss across the calluses on them. "Thank you."   


***

  
Smoke dimmed the inside of the inn, which was mostly empty but for a few scattered patrons. Tthat wasn't unusual. The torches didn't have anywhere decent to vent besides the propped-open door, and the chimney was never in perfect repair. To top matters off, there was still daylight outside. The custom wouldn't appear until after the last bit of sunlight had been used up. Roxas' knuckles ached with the tightness of his grip on the broom handle as he swept the soiled rushes into the firepit. He barely noticed it, too busy keeping a surreptitious eye on one particular patron seated at a well-scrubbed trestle table. The pack at his side said might have been a traveler, or maybe just a farmer escaping an over-bearing wife. The man didn't stop in often, only once every few weeks, and he never ordered much. He might have been a merchant, but merchants could afford better inns, and he didn't _dress_ like a merchant. He didn't dress like anything Roxas could identify.

Roxas would swear otherwise to any magistrate they dragged him before, but he knew the stranger. He understood why the man came, and nothing of wives or even decent food had anything to do with it. The little pieces he learned he hid away in his heart and didn't risk speaking of them, not ever. Anyone could make out the obvious for themselves—the tinkers' tools , odd brick-a-brack instruments in that pack, and the voice gone hoarse from charcoal smoke. But only Roxas had gotten to hear him play that odd, haunting tune he was always working on. He alone knew the tale of the simple pipes stowed in his bag and the tune that had always been in his head. It helped him feel more connected, even though they stayed apart.

He collected them, the details. Little treasures, tiny bits of a life he could only touch on the edges.

The man waved him over silently, indicating his empty mug with a negligent flip of his fingers. Roxas snatched the rough-fired clay thing and turned away without ever once looking up or meeting the stranger's eyes. He didn't need to see them to know how green they were. He was already plenty acquainted with them.

The barmaid filled the plain earthenware mug between half-hearted attempts to work the burned stew from the bottom of the pot. For once, she seemed too preoccupied with her own chores to do more than smile limply at him. Roxas pretended not to see as he grabbed the mug and hurried it back to the nameless man. He didn't have the heart to fend off her advances, and failing would only earn him another set of marks from the so-virtuous Mistress of the Inn.

Three pence were stacked precisely in the center of the table when he returned, exactly as Roxas had prayed they would be, even as he wondered what God would listen to such a prayer. In answer he set the mug down with the handle away and pocketed the money. He didn't dare smile or say a word before returning to his broom. Every bit of lightness he tamped down, every anticipatory smile turned into a grimace.

Later, later he would slink from his place in the barn, amidst the warm hay and dark shadows, out into the sharp spring air. There were places outside where the trees stood close together and the land rose to make a hollow. In the dark it was perfect protection. They'd meet there, like the damned souls he sometimes knew they must be, coupling where no one could hear and with only stars and a dark moon and God to see. And then the dawn would threaten and the stranger would beg him to stay. He always did. There would be glib tales of places hidden away in the Holy Land, where their kind were welcome, or at least not unwelcome.

Maybe this time he would go. Maybe they'd be caught and hung, side by side. Maybe he'd get nothing but a name and a dawn return to his corner of the barn. Roxas finally smiled and watched the fire engulf the last of the rancid rushes. The heat washed over him as the flames burned through them, tiny embers floating up the chimney like short-lived stars. Whether it was death or just another moment to hold to, he almost didn't care either way.  


***

  
Trains screeched and people shouted as the sun beat down overhead, barely cresting the horizon but already beginning to burn the last of the cool night air away. There was nothing to stay the heat, no trees or buildings to give shade, no lakes to swim in. The desert was brutal, stark and filled with the silence of a million tiny lives, as it should be. Compared to the chaotic train station, it was serenity itself.

Roxas watered his horses and kept to himself while his countrymen and foreigners swept around him. Ladies with their corsets and frothy dresses that would do nothing but make them prey to the sun. Men wearing their lightest linen suits that would still suffocate their skin in its own sweat. Over it all, the reek of hot metal and coal from the trains, with the endless dust kicked up by human and animal, no matter how well-controlled or fashionably tiny their steps. And noise. Cries of donkeys and the scream of the engines. People shouting, children crying—it was enough to drive anyone away from this so-called civilization. And beyond it all, the city, which was more of the same.

None of it suited him in the slightest. He would be pleased to return to his desert.

"They said blonde and you're the only blonde Arab here. You must be the man to see about the horses."

The waterbucket in Roxas' hands didn't so much as tremble when the unexpectedly _English_ voice spoke behind him. His beloved mare, Hala Sauda, pricked her exquisite ears at the foreigner and turned her head. Roxas coaxed her back to the bucket with a soft word and stroked her neck, smoothing the bloody red coat where it had become ruffled by the black fall of her mane. Her darker sister Amira eyed the stranger, but stretched out her head to sniff his palm when he offered it.

"Don't you speak English? French? _Français_? _Hablar español_? _Italiano_?" the man asked, voice low and dark. Hala's tail flicked nervously at his tone, and Roxas soothed her again. "Of course. They'd send me a bloody barbarian."

Roxas turned, lead rope gripped loosely in one hand and bucket in the other. "Perhaps," he said in his best English, "I am not the barbarian of us. Perhaps, if you had asked in politeness, I would have answered. To me, it seems clear which of us is most rude."

The foreigner stared, idly scratching Amira's neck, not seeming to mind when she leaned into the touch with her whole body. He was, amazingly, dressed for the desert, or as dressed for the desert as any Englishman had ever been, to Roxas' knowledge. The bag at his feet was packed minimally, the only luxury immediately visible being a small flute case strapped to its side. His clothes were loose and light-colored, and while his hat would never protect the back of his neck, it at least shaded his eyes. And they were amazing eyes, as green as the desert after a rain. Roxas met them daringly, and was pleased when the look was returned. He would never sell the young sisters of his Hala Sauda to a man who would grovel to a stranger.

The Englishman was clearly gritting his teeth, but eventually he forced a smile and spoke through a tight jaw. "I apologize for my rudeness. Are you the one?"

"Yes. I am Roxas." He bowed, hand to his heart. "And you must be Mister Axel Egnis."

Surprisingly again, the man returned the gesture, with a smooth grace that spoke of practice on the train, and maybe even on the ship. "Axel, please." His eyes drifted beside Roxas, where a head delicate as porcelain from the Far East was lipping at his sleeve with gentle contentment. "Are they of Rafi Sauda's line?"

Surprise and a small bit of grudging respect turned the corners of Roxas' mouth downward. He hadn't expected the man to be personable, much less to know the lineage of his horses. "You recognize them."

"The Sauda line is as unique as the people who keep them."

Sharp white teeth glinted in the darkness under the brim of his cap, suddenly charming. Roxas' heart skipped. To hide his sudden flush, he busied himself tightening Hala Sauda's girth. "We pride in spirit. Both lines."

Axel laughed, a sound that came from his whole body and caused strangers to pause and stare. "So I see."  


***

  
Roxas jumped off the bus and straight onto his skateboard, both hands gripping his backpack to keep it from swinging as he dodged other pedestrians. They clogged the sidewalks, but they always did. It was so thick with people that moving even a single block always felt more like fighting than skating. Overhead there was only a sliver of bright-blue sky that was nearly hidden by the overhanging apartments and billboards. The sheer press of people made him more claustrophobic than the buildings.

He left the main drag as soon as he could, turning down side-streets where trash formed the obstacles more than people. Once free of the crush the city was surprisingly quiet. The towering apartments blocked most of the noise from the main street. Instantly he relaxed, soaking in the calm like a hot bath.

Psychologists would have called Roxas antisocial. His teachers definitely complained about his lack of social skills. His parents swore that it was "just a phase". He just preferred the kind of peace that couldn't be found in company.

The kind that was in the thin thread of someone playing a guitar in the distance.

Without really realizing what he was doing, the next corner saw Roxas taking a left instead of a right, and riding a rail down a series of steps that went absolutely nowhere he knew. The guitar grew louder, notes more easily audible over the sound of his wheels. There was a voice too, so low that it came through as only a word now and then. He shot by people, the slight downhill pushing his skateboard so fast that stopping was going to be a problem.

The street narrowed beyond anything a car could fit through. It was tight brick on either side, sometimes painted, usually left to its own grime. The sidewalk vanished as foot traffic took over and stalls appeared along the sides, selling everything from food to cheap jewelry. More and more people crowded the way, forcing him to drop a foot and slow down or risk a hurting someone.

So suddenly that Roxas almost crashed, asphalt turned to cobbles and all pretense of a street vanished. The rough asphalt opened into a wide square with a fountain at the center. He automatically kicked his board up and caught it, staring at a market he'd never known existed. More vendors lined the walls and at least a hundred people of all types wandered around, from old ladies with dark skin like walnuts and classic wicker baskets to kids even younger than his bratty little brother.

The guitar player's back was to the fountain, case open at his feet and littered with change. His eyes were closed, fingers industriously picking out the melody without paying any attention to the occasional drop of money into his case. The song was still quiet, audible over the crowd but not loud enough to have carried to Roxas for more than three blocks. That was kind of freaky, if he thought about it. So he didn't, and chalked it up to weird acoustics.

Feeling awkward and far too much like a kid, Roxas approached. It looked safe—who would try something in a crowded square?—but he was old enough to know that sometimes what seemed to be okay was the worst thing possible.

Three steps away, the player's eyes snapped open. They were green, and there were black teardrop tattoos on his cheeks that were still red from the cut of the needle. There was nothing else really notable about him; he was just like all the ramen-scarfing college students that clogged the malls on weekends. Even his clothing was worn, but nondescript.

"Hey." The guy grinned, a motion that brought his whole face to life. "Name's Axel."


End file.
